In a perfect world, singleness is a fact of my life that I don’t explain or think about.
Achieving that state of ease in one’s thirties while the world around me is intent on partnering is…challenging. How do I cope with challenges? I write about them. So yeah. Despite my wishes, the “why I’m single” and “this is what I want from my single life” posts aren’t going anywhere. Buckle up, folks.*
An irritating reality of this spinster shit: saying I don’t want “a man,” to a man and they reply with some variation of “So you’re just going to be attractive and single” or “You’re too dope not to have someone” as if I’ve said I *can’t* find a man. A former paramour said this to me a couple years ago and I asked “Would it be better if I was ugly and single?” I don’t remember his reply. Must not have been noteworthy.
Seeking clarity, I consulted some guys from my brain trust. My favorite answer came from (another) former paramour who said “I don’t say stupid shit like that to women.”** The most illuminating answer (“Men will never believe you could get a man and do not want one”) annoyed the shit out of me.
I explained my frustration to C yesterday over Fourth of July drinks and food prep. “It sounds like as long as dudes want me, fuck what I actually want for my life.” She made it simpler and more maddening: “You just can’t be walking around being you and not belong to anyone. They have to know ONE of them can have you.”
Walking around being me? Who the hell am I? “You’re acting like I’m Beyoncé or something. I’m regular as fuck. With a regular ass job and a regular ass life. What makes my regular ass not wanting a partner so extraordinary?”
“There are a lot of stops between ‘Beyoncé’ and ‘undesirable,'” she replied with a shrug and went back to prepping cornbread. “Sorry, boo.”
We left it there.
I had another peach Jack Daniels popscicle and dreamed a world where being attractive doesn’t mean I need an owner.
[*] By “folks,” I mean my judge-y inner voice.
[**] I knew there was a reason I liked that guy.